The Soul Stone
by KryntheFae
Summary: Harry wishes with all his soul that the plain, unimpressive rock that rested in the palm of his hand would fix things—fix all of it. And it would... just not necessarily in the way he'd might have expected. Time Travel. Slash.


**The Soul Stone**

 _KryntheFae_

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

"Ouch," he jerked back. His index finger was bleeding; a pinprick of blood welling on bone-white skin. He stuck the digit in his mouth, frowning.

The blasted thing had to be here somewhere.

He stepped around the broken mirror he'd dropped, trying not to embed anymore of the countless shards into his vulnerable skin. Hopefully he hadn't just tacked on seven years of bad luck to his life—the last seven were bad enough.

Wishing desperately, a simple 'Point Me' could answer his prayers, Harry returned to wading through the piles upon piles of wasted space. He was tired of being careful; tip-toeing around the over-crowded room stacked ceiling high with a disgusting amount of junk—

Wait a minute.

Harry stopped in place. The heel of his shoe came down on a stray glass shard, causing a disharmonious crunch to echo through-out the abandoned ballroom. His searching eyes swerved from a dusty stack of china to an odd shaped dresser before he spotted it. There.

In the middle of of the room was an elaborate dining-table, easily the size of the Gryffindor table-possibly larger. And at the center of it a plain painted jewelry box laying there quietly, untouched, just for Harry's findings. It was a beacon of depreciation amongst the piles of discarded portraits, empty of their owners, heavy-looking centuries-old hardbacks, and gaudy, moth-eaten witch's robes.

Pure-bloods. He shook his head in distaste as he heaved himself over a fallen wardrobe. A lone candlestick decorated with a silver serpent seemed to wink at him as the light caught.

He strode over with a determined grimace, adrenaline climbing his spine and holding his heart in it's frozen claws. This could be it, had to be. He stopped in front of the dusty table, hands hovering above the grainy wood of the jewelry box.

Hope swelled. Harry had to close his eyes for just a second, calm himself. Please, oh Gods, please let this be it. He flipped the weak wooden clasp with the tip of his wand and peered inside the dark box. His grimace fell into relief.

 _Thank Merlin_

"Psst, Harry—!"

His partner suddenly rapped on one of the doors, startling him. He turned back to the jewelry box, grasping the ancient artifact from the satin inlay with his bare hands; triumphant.

"I found it, Ron!" he called back, checking the stone with a few well-rehearsed charms.

He probably should have started with those—Hermione would have his fun-bits if she found out he'd just impatiently nabbed the thing without the proper spell-work—but because it simply _had_ to be what they were looking for, Harry hadn't been concerned. This unimportant-looking stone was supposed to save lives; not cause further pain and suffering.

"It was completely opposite where Mrs. Higgins said it would be—though I'm not surprised honestly, she didn't even remember she had a son for the first half of our conversation—" he continued rambling, cradling the fragile piece against his chest as he staggered through the messy room. He took no care in what he might be jostling, allowing his Auror robes to wreck havoc as he whipped through the items he'd been so careful not to disturb.

He had what he wanted. Time to go home!

"Harry, that's great and all, real happy for you there, mate," there was a preoccupied quality to his best friend's speech that didn't register in Harry's blissful state of mind. He began to hum, quickening his steps towards the faded, french-style doors. The only entrance; and exit, to the ballroom.

"I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner," he marveled, disbelief still clouding his wide emerald eyes as he peeked through his fisted fingers to check what rested there. He took a moment to admire the way the stone caught the light from the single un-boarded window.

It was a truly eye-catching piece, despite the insignificant choice of stone. It seemed to hum along with him—resting innocently in his palm.

" _We,_ may know what the blasted thing is used for— _but Atticus sure didn't!_ Why would he strive to hide something he thought useless junk!" he shook his head at the nonsense of it all. A sense of accomplishment was settling in, nice and warm in his belly.

Harry reached the door in one last—surprisingly graceful, leap. Just in time to hear a scuffling behind the door followed by a loud, disconcerting _thump_.

It was a heavy sound. Not unlike a human body collapsing onto a hard surface.

Harry's body language changed in an instant. His wand flew into his hands with a quick flick of the wrist, his back bent, center of gravity low to the ground as he threw himself against the peeling wallpaper. He eyed the closed doors with renewed state of alertness.

"Ron," he hissed, multiple scenarios fabricating through his now racing mind. "You ok back there?"

Silence.

Worry squeezed his lungs at the lack of answer and he silently exhaled the breath he'd been holding, slowly. He kept his spitted curses internal, wishing for once, just for bloody once, he could have a scheduled outing go well. Just once!

He was about to shove forward, deciding quickly that throwing open the doors and tossing a stunner at his would-be foe was a better idea than possibly losing an eyeball by peeking through the keyhole.

A soft, pained grunt stopped him mid-cast.

" _Harry_."

"Ron!" Harry returned instantly. He dropped to his knees, pressing his face close to the door despite his previous agreement with himself. The stone was placed in a meticulously warded pocket close to his breast; hidden and protected. It took every grounded cell in his body to keep himself from bursting through the doors like an un-trained idiot, straining as he was to hear more of his partner's feeble speech.

"Harry, listen to me—" Ron paused to take a steading breath, he sounded like he'd had the air sucked out of him. Harry frowned, concern building. He sounded horrible. "They— _ugh,_ they have us surrounded," he finished with an interrupting cough. There was deep-seated frustration in the ginger's tone that didn't sit well with Harry.

There was something about the whole situation that was bothering him. Had pinged his 'oh-shit' meter from the very start, when they'd first entered the ghostly wizarding village. That was why he'd gotten so excited, stupidly, he'd _really_ hoped this time they'd be in-and-out with no trouble. He was a gullible idiot.

"Who?" he asked, already regretting it.

All he got was a humorless chuckle; the sound echoed hollowly, like a terribly familiar, self-deprecating joke.

Harry closed his eyes. He adjusted the grip on his wand as it bowed warningly.

Them.

"How many?" he requested, instantly, already calculating the force at which he needed to use against the single window without a freakish amount of plywood and iron nails pounded onto it.

Ron stopped his depressing chortling and answered him quietly. "Thirty. At least."

Harry bit his lip to stop the curse from escaping. Fuck. Well, at least his mind was free-game. He hadn't thought there were that many left. It'd been three years since Hogwarts. Three years since You-Know-Who had become He-Who-Had-Fallen—or some rubbish.

"I didn't think there'd be so many survivors," Ron muttered, echoing his thoughts unknowingly. Survivors. A good word for them, if any. They were desperate; individuals who'd lost their leader, their entire purpose. Most had committed suicide or gone into hiding; a select few turned themselves in-a rare example of self-reflection. The rest were captured, lost and alone inside a frozen prison, living day after day-not. He pitied them.

He swallowed sharply. _No time for pity-parties, Potter!_ His late instructor's gruffness barreled through his own thoughts.

 _Get to work!_

"Do you have an exit?" Ron stalled a moment, seemingly checking with his eyes and wand if he in-fact, did. He finally answered after a calculating pause.

"Yes."

"Good," Harry released a breath he didn't remember holding. "- me too."

An similar sound on the other side of the door made his his lips twitch fondly, despite the severity of the situation. Nice to know he was still loved after all these years. After all the crap he'd pulled the poor bastard into. He owed the man a full English breakfast after this one, certainly.

"On the count of three then, mate?" Ron was grinning, he could feel it. Harry bit his lip to stop himself from doing the same.

"One," he started.

"Two," Ron muttered through the door. The brief pause was enough time for a bolt of anticipation to wire through his tense body. His hands began to tremble, unnoticed. They finished in unison.

"Three!"

There was a scuffling of fast-paced footwork—a bone-shattering _"Confringo!"_ and then pure, unadulterated chaos.

* * *

Author's Note: So… this happened? No idea where this came from. But here it is! ps. I own nothing of Harry Potter, just making fun with someone else's macaroni art.


End file.
